


The Truth Beneath The Rose

by HopefulHeir



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:04:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopefulHeir/pseuds/HopefulHeir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was your kismesis.  Your relationship had been beautiful.  But he crossed the line.  You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of calling him such.  You wouldn't even give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even if it meant you couldn't kill him.</p><p>You hate him.  But it's purely platonic now.  You hate him for taking her away from you.  And you can't show it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth Beneath The Rose

You want to scream.

Never have you hated him more than at this very moment. Which is saying a lot, really — he truly does disgust you. But now he’s reached a new low.

“She’s just a slave, Marquise,” he says, almost bursting with overly exaggerated, sarcastic sympathy. ”You can always take a new one any time. You always do, anyway. What’s the difference?”

You can’t handle it. You want to kill him. You want to pin him to the wall and kiss him because god you’ve never hated him this much before in your life and you just can’t take this.

But you won’t do any of those things. You sip your tea, keeping your demeanor calm and your smile pleasant. ”Of course,” you reply, “Just a bit of bad luck that she’s gone, I suppose. Tragic, really. I think I’ll take a few of your slaves to make up for it. You can drop them off and be on your way.”

His shark-toothed grin widens. ”Of course! As you wish, my dear. Consider them my gift to you, along with my condolences.” He gives a mock bow, smile never fading as he leaves your quarters.

You wait a moment before rising from your seat and making your way to the chest at the foot of your recuperacoon. You open it, removing a few items before finding what you had been looking for — a black dress with a jade symbol sewn into it. She really was skilled with a needle and thread, and you wish she could’ve finished this and worn it at least once. Just once, you wanted to see her as a troll. Not a slave. An equal, if you could call her that given her place on the hemospectrum.

But that will never happen now. It doesn’t matter how different she was to you. It’s too late.

You eventually fold it up and place it back into the chest you removed it from, also returning the other items to their place. All except for one — your journal. You take that with you back to your table, where you seat yourself again and have another sip of tea as you contemplate how to eloquently write about the current situation.

Your emotions will not show on the pages, as this book is not for you.

Your descendant — or anyone else who finds this, you suppose — will learn from your experiences better that way.


End file.
